


Cemeteries of London

by consultingcenturion



Series: Goodnight (My John) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M, References to Suicide, Slash, Temporary Character Death, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:17:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingcenturion/pseuds/consultingcenturion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sherlock will call for him, he always does.' John deals with his loss, his confessions, his dreams, his undying hope. He waits for his heart to return. Set from the last few scenes of the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dutch Courage

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so these chapters are broken up by songs, hence why they are smaller drabbles, but I wanted them to be read with each song in mind. Enjoy!
> 
> This goes in order from the Fall, the funeral, and finally the Reunion.

Song: The Dutch Courage by the Spill Canvas

**The Dutch Courage**

It's time, Sherlock thinks as he pulls out his phone and dials his friend. John steps out from his cab and picks up on the second ring.

Sherlock can see him from the rooftop, his friend searching for him, he can hear the terror in his voice when his eyes finally find the detective, stories up on the ledge of the hospital's roof. Sherlock's heart is pounding, he feels sick to his stomach. It's a fear he hasn't experienced before, but he tries to keep calm, for John.

Sherlock is talking to John, trying to fit in all that he needs to say into these last few precious minutes. It is in these minutes that he begins to feel the fear, the panic, the anguish at what he's about to do. He's lying to John, telling him that he's faked everything, that everything Moriarty claims is true. His voice is shaking so hard he can barely control it, it's all welling up inside him. He wants to tell John everything, but he keeps lying.

"Who could be that clever?" Sherlock bitterly spits.

"You could," John says evenly. A quick laugh bursts from Sherlock, in the midst of his panic, his heart swells. He can almost see the defiance in John's eyes from his place up on St. Bart's. That's his John. Loyal to the end. Sherlock's stomach lurches, _to the end._

As John tries to move towards the hospital, Sherlock stops him, "No, stay exactly where you are.  _Don't move_."

Sherlock stares down at John, who raises his hand slightly up towards Sherlock, and he reaches out to him, so desperately wishing that he could fly. Fly down and swoop John up in his arms and take him away to a place that is safe and far, far from all the horror that is around them.

He knows that there is a sniper, watching John, aimed on his heart. Sherlock feels the calm come over him, he can do this. He can save John. He can save everyone.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock says, "please will you do this for me?" He begs of his friend.

"Goodbye, John."  _My John._

And with all the courage he can hold onto, he closes his eyes, and falls.


	2. Closed Casket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Numb, John was just numb. From the moment he felt for a pulse on his friend's wrist, his own heart had stopped beating. It was like there was a hollow pit carved right out of him.

Song: Lack of Color by Death Cab for Cutie

**Closed Casket**

John Watson returned to 221b Baker Street in a haze.

He couldn't quite understand what was going on. Whether it was the throbbing in his head, or the shaking of his hands, he couldn't focus on anything. He wasn't even sure how he had made his way back to his flat. How he'd gotten up the stairs. Where are his shoes at? He glanced around. He's sitting in his chair, across from Sher—he couldn't even finish the thought.

Numb, John was just numb. From the moment he felt for a pulse on his friend's wrist, his own heart had stopped beating. It was like there was a hollow pit carved right out of him.

For hours, John sat in his seat, staring at the empty chair across from him, completely lost.

It was only when Molly called from the morgue that his trance was broken. She told him that they'd identified Sherlock's body, and Moriar—Rich Brooks'. John didn't even have the will to contradict Molly, to tell her that that was  _not_  Rich Brooks, that it was Moriarty, and that Sher—his flatmate was in grave danger.

John couldn't accept that he was...gone. He was not gone. He looked over to the door, waiting for his mate to burst through, carrying a harpoon, or a case file, or a blender, or anything for that matter, as long as  _he came home._

Ms. Hudson stopped by, ushered John to his room, tucked him under the covers, promising that she'd call Mycroft tomorrow, coordinate the plans.

_Plans for what?_  John thought.

John didn't know if he had slept or not. He didn't look at the clock, he didn't move, didn't think. He just laid there in bed.

After some time, he felt himself get up, he blindly shoved some clothes and his laptop into his old rucksack and left the flat, not bothering to lock the door.

He rented a room at a small hotel, not able to stay in 221b, because he couldn't take the raw expectation that he had, that hope that at any moment, his friend was going to was going to come back home.

He called the detective's phone, 37 times. It went to voicemail immediately. He listened to the recording, and hung up. On the thirty-seventh time, he said, "Stop this nonsense," quietly and ended the call.

The next two weeks were a blur of questions, of plans, which he did very little to assist with. His limp had returned, and the tremor in his hand had not stopped.

There was a funeral, he vaguely remembered. Mycroft was speaking, he wasn't listening. He just stared at the casket, at his friend inside. Ms. Hudson was clutching his arm, sniffling. He could see Lestrade, with his head in his hands. It was a small affair—very few people showed up in the wake of the media's fury. They had done a bang-up job of running his friend's name through the mud.

John just kept staring, waiting for his heart to start beating again.


	3. Hollowed Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the cemetery scene from Reichenbach, my take as to what Sherlock sees and what John is thinking/feeling in coordination with this series!

Goodbye, My Lover by James Blunt

**Hollowed Out**

When John finally came into focus, he was standing in front of a headstone that read the name of his best friend.

The headstone was simple, black with gold writing, nothing fancy. It spoke nothing of the man's character, who loved him, who he was, what he had done. It just said his name. But to John, that name meant so much.

John breathed unevenly, finding the right words to say, trying to keep a grip on this moment of clarity.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero, uhm, there were times I didn't even think you were human," he tensed his jaw, holding his composure, "but let me tell you this, you were the best man and you were the most human...human being that I have ever known and none one will ever convince me that you told a lie. And so there," he finished stubbornly. He was so angry at Sherlock. Angry that he had left him, that he tried to lied to John. He actually  _tried to make right_. That bastard. He doesn't get to take the easy way out. Not this time.

John closed his eyes and thought back to that night he woke up, before the incident, and he felt someone else in his bed. He heard the sobbing, he felt the trembling. He had hugged Sherlock to him, let him curl up to him and cry. He had told him that he wasn't going to let anything hurt him. A tear ran down John's cheek. He should have known. He should have asked, he should have done  _something_  to deter Sherlock from  _this._

He had awoken in the early morning, he was on his back and there was a mess of dark curls tickling his nose. Sherlock was splayed across him and the remainder of the bed. The sheets were twisted up in his long limbs. John had an arm wrapped protectively, maybe even possessively, around the sleeping detective. His had was laid across his sharp cheek bones. I could feel the soft breathing of his sleeping bedmate on his wrist. In that moment, John was filled with an indescribable joy. He had cared for Sherlock for some time, but the detective was married to his work, he'd never take any time to form a relationship with someone as  _boring_  as John. John had lifted his fingers to curl into Sherlock's thick hair, and he let himself pretend that in this moment, Sherlock loved him too. He thought about how he had kissed the consulting detective's fingers, how he had held him. Sherlock's grip tightened around John, and John brushed his hand along the detective's face, across the perfect open cupid's bow of his lips. He hated how the butterflies flew around his stomach when he heard Sherlock sigh John's name in his sleep.  _I love you, Sherlock_ , John had whispered to him.

John limped forward to the grave marker and touched the tip of his fingers on the cold stone.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He paused for a moment before turning to go. After a few steps he stopped and whirled around, "Oh there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead," his voice broke, he could barely speak past the thickness in his throat. "Just for me, just stop it, just stop this." He couldn't hold it anymore and he covered his face with his hands, letting the tears fall. Letting all of those unspoken words, unspoken feelings.  _"I love you, so much, please come back,"_  he whispered into his hands. Sherlock couldn't be de—he wouldn't say it. This was a trick, a game, it had to be  _something_. Sherlock...Sherlock wasn't...dead. He would come home. He would call for John, he  _always_  did.

John wiped his face, nodded, and turned his back on the meaningless grave. He limped away, a hollow man.


	4. We Could Have Been Happy

You Could Be Happy by Snow Patrol

**We Could Have Been Happy**

Sherlock watched his best friend limp away from his grave.  _His limp has returned_ , Sherlock thought sadly. It took all the control he could muster to not sprint across the cemetery to his friend and embrace him.

Today his heart weighed more than it had ever weighed before. Each pound reverberated against his ribcage almost painfully. Seeing John cry, it was almost more than Sherlock could bare. He saw John talking to his grave, wishing to know what he had said, but Sherlock was safely out of earshot, under a weeping willow.  _How poetic_ , Sherlock thought bitterly to himself. Sherlock hadn't seen John cry yet-he hadn't actually expected him to. He thought that maybe John might be relieved of the pressure of taking care of the adult-child that was Sherlock. He wouldn't have to deal with noise at all hours, his thumb collection in the refrigerator, his drug problems, his practicing the violin at the most odd times. He could have a normal life without Sherlock holding him back, marry a normal girl, have children-Sherlock bit his lip to keep the pain back. He had a metallic taste in his mouth, like his pain had a taste. Sherlock was going to see to John's safety, and then, maybe, if John would accept him, he would come back.

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined what life would be like with John. Together. Sherlock knew that he could make John happy, he would treat him better than all of those silly women that John had dated. He knew John, he knew his moods, his facial expressions. Most of the time he could read John so well, and vice versa. He would protect John, he would love John, he would always love John, until the day he  _actually_  died, and even beyond. A renegade tear ran down his cheek.  _Maybe someday we could be happy._

But for now, he had the safety of the ones he loved to worry about.

"I'll see you soon, I promise,  _my John._ "


	5. These Images

Song: Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy

**These Images**

John returned to 221b Baker Street. When he opened the door, he barely remained standing. It smelled so richly of Sherlock. His violin still sat in the corner, his science equipment in boxes on their kitchen table. John's face was wet, his insides were numb, and he couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. When he closed his eyes, he saw those wonderful blue ones that he adored so much, framed by dark, lovely lashes. Those eyes that saw into John's soul.

John aimlessly ambled around the apartment, touching Sherlock's things, thinking they might bring him closer to his friend. He found himself in the bathroom, suddenly he was freezing. He tore the shower curtain open and turned the water on as hot as it would go. He stripped himself of his clothes, which felt weighed down and dirty with death. He stepped into the shower and let the warm water run over him. He felt the piping hot water working at the numbness in his body, until he finally broke. The flood gates seemed to open and John doubled over, choking on his sobs. He sunk to his knees and shook with each sob. Tears endlessly streaming down his cheeks, he clutched around his middle, willing the numbness to return, to stop the pain in his chest, which was almost too much to bear. The water continued to beat down on him as his cries got louder and louder, he was audibly moaning in pain. He leaned his head against the tiled side of the wall and gripped his knees to him.

He cried out to Sherlock, to come back, to God to bring him back, for the emptiness that he felt to take him away, to end it. In this moment, he hated himself for not telling Sherlock that he loved him. For not killing himself and Moriarty in the Pool to save Sherlock. He hadn't felt this aching longing since leaving Afghanistan. But this was so much more real, so much more acute.

He couldn't stop the images from plaguing him. Every smile, every laugh, each moment of joy, happiness, sorrow, anger, astonishment, frustration, every second of every day that he had spent with Sherlock came rushing back to him and he let it take wash over him like blood.

At one point, John's nose had started bleeding from sobbing so hard. He just let it bled, knowing medically that he wouldn't die, that the clot would come out and it would stop, but he didn't bother to stop it. He didn't care. His sobs had calmed, but the tears were still running. The water had long gone cold, but John didn't notice. He was a broken man.

Eventually, John turned the water off, dried himself, and pulled his boxers on. He passed his own room and instead went to Sherlocks. He climbed into his bed, curled up in a ball in the center and buried his head under the covers, like a child. Everything smelled like Sherlock, the pillows were cold and soft, and John didn't fight the sleep when it came to him, he knew that he was going to have to be strong, he was going to have to keep going, to wait for the return, he knew that's what Sherlock would have wanted, but right now, John had nothing left in him.

He closed his eyes and pretended that it was that night, that he was going to wake up and Sherlock was going to be wrapped around him, and all was well.

And sleep took him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I most definitely wrote a follow up for this story, the reunion of Sherlock—of course! How could I not? WHO IS READY FOR SOME SERIOUS FLUFF.


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